


Someone saved my life tonight

by sshysmm



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of A Rebellious Woman told from Athos' pov. Athos struggles to come to terms with first the attentions of the Comtesse de Larroque, then with her lies. Aramis is on hand to try to make him see sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone saved my life tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Same timeline as A Rebellious Woman - Athos' pov. My first fanfic in years, an attempt to make sense of the episode. Goes through the scenes of the episode with intervening material filled in - some dialogue used directly from episode. The word 'salon' is an anachronism at this point, but I'm just following the show... Will likely continue with more of Ninon's story and take on things.

_Where had that come from?_

Athos felt his mouth twitch even as he frowned. The Comtesse regarded him with deceptive lightness, her chin cocked high and her eyelids low. He heard shuffling and a suppressed snort from the men standing behind him. His request for forgiveness for the intrusion, merely a formality as it left his lips, had been swiftly parried and her return left him momentarily wrong-footed.

“What is it that you want?” she gazed with a cool intensity at him, and Athos felt a flush rise on the back of his neck. To his embarrassment he found himself looking away and shifting his weight awkwardly, the explanation for the search emerging in a far less commanding fashion than he had intended. Her reply to the enquiry about Fleur Baudin’s whereabouts was once more instant and unhesitating, but now she put some measure of biting disgust into her words, suggesting that the girl was avoiding a proposed marriage.

He felt his smile rise once more as she looked at him, those impassively heavy eyelids not hiding the glint in her blue eyes. At the phrase ‘lifetime of domestic servitude’ he broke eye contact again, grinning ruefully as he searched once more for steady ground in their conversation; she allowed him no respite, however, dismissing the musketeers from her presence and denying knowledge of Fleur’s location before turning away from them, back to the lecture they had interrupted.

Still staring in a somewhat puzzled manner at his own boots and trying to establish what had just happened, Athos was relieved to hear Porthos’ voice intrude and draw the Comtesse back. As she described the brooch Porthos had noticed, Athos let his eyes wander, free to do so now that he was not pinned by her gaze. Her body language was the picture of languid passivity, her hands folded before her with her fingers interlaced loosely; she had a habit of leaning slightly forward as she listened and back as she made her points in reply. But her face was all focus and intensity despite the studied neutrality of her expression; he thought she reminded him most of the classical marble sculptures his tutors had introduced him to, but with a warmth that the smooth stone could not exude. The colour of her outfit, her hair and her skin reinforced this impression, for unlike the stark white of marble she was a spectrum of rich creams and yellow golds, punctuated only by the rose tint of her lips and high cheekbones, and the glitter of blue eyes that now laughed knowingly at Aramis’ performance.

Her face had lit up at the entertainment provided by Aramis, who relished playing the romantic and had risen to the opportunity to parade his open-mindedness to the room full of women. The audience was not his in this case, however, and the Comtesse’s observation that he had no influence over those in her salon resulted in the greater reaction; a chorus of high-pitched laughter sprinkled the room. She seemed maddeningly confident in Athos’ eyes, a smug, near-feline presence toying with unsuspecting prey that had wandered into her room, smilingly indicating to the women around her how to play the conversation.

Having had a moment to evaluate her, Athos decided it was time to try to return to business once more. Her eyes returned to land on him with a heaviness that he was braced for this time. A touch of impatience entered the Comtesse’s voice as she reiterated her negative reply and tossed her chin in irritation; he watched her gold earrings sway at the motion, sending patterns of light glittering on the skin of her pale neck.

The room was silent, and Athos stepped forward, letting the audience she had shown such mastery over slip from his mind. The salon had shrunken around them and he could not break her stare, but he advanced automatically, letting himself fall into the practised physicality of questioning a suspect, constricting their personal space and forcing them to defer ground. The Comtesse would not give her ground up so easily, however. Would she mind if they searched the property for Fleur? She would mind very much.

She stood before him, unyielding and serious, but he finally felt that equal footing in the conversation had been reached. Relaxing from his downward-leaning advance he tried a different tactic, allowing a corner of his mouth to lift in amusement as he suggested he might insist on a search.

For the first time in their meeting she was the one to break eye-contact, a look of pleasant surprise at his participation passing over her face as she glanced down coquettishly, defending her own word. She smiled slowly at him and Athos returned the expression, looking away himself as he realised he had been focussing on the lips which had pouted teasingly around her smile.

The intensity of her words and her gaze had caught him unawares when he had entered the building; he had not knowingly flirted or been flirted with for some time and her bold offensive had alarmed him. Now that he stood only a metre or so from her and felt the possibility of some cooperation with their questions and their search for Fleur, he found the patterns of speech and of mannerisms returned easily to him when faced by such a charming sparring partner. His relaxation did not last though, as she stepped yet closer to him and the salon shrunk a little more around them, the silence of the rest of the room deepening.

She pushed for the second time that day at his closely-maintained defences, once more combining a compliment with her troubling perceptiveness, prying at his past and his emotional life more than anyone had dared to in some time: what sadness did his beauty ( _beauty_ — if the other musketeers had been there he was sure he’d have heard them laugh at that) conceal? There was no escape from her attack this close, the smell of her sweet, spicy perfume filling his senses. He hadn’t been looked at as she now looked at him in years, and his skin prickled as she drank in his features with her eyes. Feeling the warmth of the small room in which only the two of them stood, Athos allowed himself to return her look, landing a lingering glance on her lips again before he managed to return a select few words to maintain his privacy, hoping that it would be enough to keep her at bay for the moment.

Perhaps sensing his reluctance to say more, perhaps merely happy at getting a response, the Comtesse sparkled at him, smiling warmly again and quietly professing indulgence of his answer. “Follow me,” she murmured, turning and affording Athos a view of the back of her regal neck, blonde curls piled above it with wisps trailing out that tickled the nape. Gorging on the sight for a moment, he realised that the room had grown again to its previous proportions and he stood at centre stage in the salon.

He turned to the smirking trio of Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan and extended a hand, bidding them stay. A simple search of a Comtesse’s property would not take long, and under no circumstances would more than one person be required even if Fleur were to turn up. He told himself that if she had information to share, the Comtesse would be more likely to share it with him alone than with all the other musketeers present as well.

He followed her through room after room, carefully examining the surroundings and avoiding examining her as much as he could. She introduced each room in a clipped manner and he guessed warily that she had prickled at the return of his professional manner once they had left the salon. Entering a final bed chamber, empty of other people as all the other rooms had been, she turned and squared her shoulders, reiterating Fleur’s absence from her home.

Seeking the easy exchange they had shared minutes earlier, Athos demurred to echo her tone, reminding her that she had initiated the search, and he’d have been happy to take her word for it.

Athos saw the set of her jaw then and fidgeted, re-examining the window seat behind her as she launched into a tirade delivered through a silkily restrained voice. _Now we come to the truth of it_ , he thought. Her public persona — performing and lecturing for the girls in her salon — had given way to flirting when encouraged, but away from that performative space the impatient note he had heard a little of earlier had returned to her voice. He wondered at the change and at her rising anger as she listed all the types of men who had come to her salon seeking missing relatives and lovers.

Her posture changed as she moved her arms, presenting herself and tilting her chin with what could only be described as a glare. The reason that so many disgruntled men had visited her home, asking after their loved ones? “It must always be that Ninon de Larroque has corrupted them,” she arched an eyebrow bitterly at Athos.

He saw how nettled she was at facing questioning from him yet again over a subject that she was all too familiar with, but the pride, hurt and self-pity in her voice spurred him to reply swiftly. With a rush of self-admonition he recalled with crystal clarity the young woman whose death had brought him to the Comtesse’s home in the first place. How could she complain of her treatment when she ought to take responsibility for the life that had just been lost? A hot, creeping shame threatened to recall Athos to his past as he thought back to the assumptions his family, his acquaintances and even he himself had made from the safety of their country estate about the choices of the disadvantaged. The Comtesse was a part of the world he had sought to leave behind, what could she possibly understand of the repercussions her actions might have for vulnerable youngsters from poorer backgrounds? He balked at what now seemed nothing but the worthy confidence of ignorance and he let his indignant reply echo hers.

Despite his flash of annoyance at her apparent disinterest in the death of a student, the words she spoke afterwards were imbued not with ignorance, he reflected, but idealism. Foolhardy idealism, perhaps, but there was well-meaning in her voice that resembled nothing he had ever heard from the mouths of the aristocrats in Pinon. Nevertheless, her refusal to see the difference in status between herself and two young girls she had enthralled maddened him. With that supreme confidence of hers she glided towards Athos again, prying at the motivation behind his heartfelt response, turning the conversation away from men seeking lost girls and girls seeking denied educations, and returning it squarely to his opinion of her. “You accuse me of hypocrisy?”

He chuckled, part of him marvelling at her single-mindedness, part still irritated by her wilfulness. His blood was up at the disagreement though, and he decided it would be safest to take his leave of the Comtesse rather than risk any … more heated exchange. Deliberately, he looked past her, back at the open door to the room as he made to step away once more from the smell of her perfume.

“Thank you. For your help.”

She inhaled a steadying gasp, moving closer still before he could step past her. “Will I see you again?”

The change she had undergone again made him smirk. The competitive conversation seemed to have reminded her of her initial reaction to his arrival, and to have piqued her emotions as much as it had his. He found himself pinned down by that steady blue gaze once more. Knowing better now than to show submissiveness to her confident approach Athos stood his ground. “Why?”

She narrowed her eyes momentarily, dropped them to his mouth and stepped close to him, slipping a smooth hand up to his face as she kissed him.

Only somewhat astonished, Athos reciprocated, his hands soon catching up with the rest of him and finding their way comfortably around her waist. The leather of the gloves slid smoothly, easily across the silk of her bodice, but in the back of his mind he cursed himself in a quiet voice for the fact that he still had them on. She smelt of cloves and her fingers rubbed distractingly at his beard as he leant into the kiss, before they gently moved down to rest at his collar, as though poised to pull at his doublet. Coming apart from her, Athos kept his eyes shut as he heard the Comtesse murmur close to his mouth, “that’s why.”

She was looking at him expectantly when he opened them, and he could not refuse the invitation to return to her home that evening. But as he walked from the house, carefully ignoring the expectant looks of his comrades, he thought uneasily about the kiss. If he considered the last time that he was in Pinon the memories slithered from him, the fire and the smoke and the wine fading and blurring all that he thought he’d remembered of that night. Was he still, in fact, a married man? Or had that been some hellish vision, seeking the vengeance that she deserved from him and brought about by the wine and being back in that cursed place? He could not think of the Comtesse’s bright face gazing at him without also thinking of Anne: Anne smiling broadly at him in the field; Anne’s clenched jaw as she willed him to stay and watch her execution.

He shuddered as they walked to their horses and noticed D’Artagnan glance at him questioningly, but he’d long had practice in not telling his closest friends about these matters. He berated himself internally for foolishly playing along with the notion that he deserved the attention of anyone even half as lovely as the Comtesse after what he had done, whilst an uglier part of him, buried far deeper down, asked himself why any woman should be trusted given how false his wife had proven.

The afternoon ground past; there were no other leads on Fleur’s location and there was little to be done. Athos made an effort to distract himself by sword practise in the garrison yard rather than by consuming too much wine. Going through each familiar motion he found himself returning angrily to the Comtesse’s complaints about her reputation. The body of young Therese had been examined and prepared for burial, and memory of the child’s scuffed, bruised face reprimanded him as did the constant memory of Anne’s face, framed by the noose. The Comtesse needed to realise the suffering she had caused, he thought grimly, she needed to face up to the costs of what she claimed to fight for, for nothing came without a price. If she had encouraged Therese to approach the royal carriage and it had resulted in the loss of her life…he let his breath out in an irritated hiss, wondering whether her idealism extended to such recklessness.

His movements increased in speed as he raged, absorbed in the motion of the sword that was an extension of his arm; acutely aware of the flick of his shirt fabric on his skin and his hair on his face, corresponding with the precise, powerful jabs and feints he rehearsed. He grew angrier the more his attempts to dwell on the Comtesse’s responsibility towards Therese and Fleur were eclipsed by the memory of her touch. Despite the warmth of his workout, his skin felt cold except upon the areas where her hand had caressed his face and neck.

Swiping his sword through the air a final time he allowed himself a growl of frustration, stalking back to his quarters in search of a change of shirt, and perhaps just a small cup of wine to warm himself. This time, he resolved, he would take charge of their interactions: she would not lead him on a merry dance of flirtation before he had made her see the consequences of her interference in Fleur and Therese’s lives; before he made certain she hadn’t urged the girl to her death.

By the time he stood in her salon for the second time that day, marvelling at the variety of books on the enormous shelves, he had come to a decision that allowed him to smile easily at her opening words. He thought she sounded a little defensive, promising not to kiss him again if he did not want it, and there was relief in her eyes when he returned that he was better prepared to fend her off this time. He truly did feel better prepared to learn a little more of the Comtesse this time than she had hoped to learn of him previously, but his heart softened to think of this beautiful, confident woman preparing to set up defences for why it would not matter a jot to her if he regretted their kiss. Only a little, mind you; he deferred the suggestion of dinner and offered her his arm, leading her out of the property and turning down the street towards, unbeknownst to her, the morgue. As they walked through the dark streets, still busy in the early evening, she was content to travel in silence, an odd little smile quirking her lips. He allowed himself to mimic it for the short journey, amused at the thought of how normal a promenading couple they must have appeared to others.

When they arrived at the top of the dark stairs and he gestured for her to go first, he saw her expression flicker with concern before hardening into a knowing mask. She said nothing, but lifted her heavy skirts and turned her chin from him, slowly beginning the descent down the stone blocks. He followed, making certain his expression was unreadable when she turned once to frown up at him. He nodded at the mortician, with whom he had arranged the meeting, and walked immediately to the table on which he knew the body of Therese lay, killed by the royal carriage as she tried to deliver news of the Comtesse’s thoughts on female education to the Queen.

The mortician pulled back the grubby sheet from the girl’s face and Athos felt an involuntary stab of gratification at the Comtesse’s horrified gasp. Her hands fluttered to her mouth before she regained control and tucked them away under her voluminous cloak. She looked anywhere but Therese’s face as she asked why he had brought her there. Breathing deeply, he fixed her with a sharp stare and asked whether she did not feel responsible for what was before her.

Her voice was as low as normal, but its usual modulation wavered with a note of exasperation and despair — the response surprised him in its honesty, her eyes rolled from the body to the wall of the room and back to his face as she defended what she had given the girl (an education, food and clothes) but still refused to accept responsibility for the corpse that lay between them. He hardened his jaw, wondering whether this was all delusion, pressing her to admit whether she had encouraged the girl’s final act.

The Comtesse tried to keep her voice calm, but he heard the resentment in it as she denied this once more. She moved forwards and gently put a hand on Therese’s bloodied shoulder, stifling a sob. “I was so fond of her,” she breathed, finally looking directly at the corpse’s composed face. “I feel pity. And sorrow,” her jaw matched his, clenching as she glared across the dark room at him. “But not guilt.”

Her eyes shone more brightly in the uneven candlelight and he saw that she told him exactly what she felt. Satisfied with the answer, but frustrated by her continued defiance of reason regarding the poorer girls in her care, he offered an apology. “I did not mean to upset you.”

A crease deepened at her brow as she held his look: “Yes you did.” She blinked rapidly whilst he hoped he had not flinched visibly at those words. To his wonder she looked back down at corpse, moving closer to the table again and leaning sadly over it. She murmured words that sent a chill down his spine, a philosopher seeing a cruel and violent death for the first time and considering the nature of the body in the absence of the soul. Her face crumpled with grief, she stepped back, folding her hands away once more and calling softly for the mortician to cover the body as she stifled a sob.

Athos’ shoulders lowered gently and he let his grimace morph into a thoughtful frown. He allowed himself a small measure of regret at putting her through that, but seeing the genuine awe and horror with which she had spoken of Therese’s death had at least left him with no doubt of her pure intentions. As he considered what he could say to her after that his roving glance fell on a leather satchel on one of the other tables. One of the thieves from the morning skirmish with the Vatican emissary lay by the satchel and it was curious to wonder what had killed him so soon after his triumph; Athos arranged to hear from the mortician shortly about the thief and escorted the Comtesse back up the stairs and out into the cool night breeze.

The walk back to her apartments was as quiet as the journey to the morgue had been, but this time she did not look at him, keeping her hands clasped, her chin tilted contrarily away from him, and her gaze on something unseeable. Finally as they approached her door he broke the silence, thinking back to her speech in the bed chamber earlier, to the list of male figures who had accused her of leading their women astray. “Do you…hate men?” It sounded a little silly even as he asked it, though her head snapped round instantly to look at him as he spoke and a smile of true mirth was on her face.

She deferred the question with a gentle riposte that reminded him reassuringly of the vivacity she had shown earlier, alluding only to a number of acceptable suitors whom she had known. She then continued, firmly, her voice strengthening to its earlier certainty as she informed Athos that she would “not submit” to marriage.

His skin tingled with surprise at her words and he smiled, professing his agreement — whether he was still married and a vengeful wife sought him out somewhere, or whether she remained dead by his hand, there was no more marriage for him, and it was pleasant to be able to say so without judgement or offence ensuing. Why should she want to avoid it though? She had not even known the ecstasies of joy one could reach in a happy marriage, let alone the agony of its ending, so why was she so eager to denounce it?

The Comtesse pressed her lips together and hesitated. She cited first her wealth and then her body as her own possessions that she would be obliged to hand over to any husband upon their marriage; Athos nodded blithely as she mentioned wealth, thinking of her noble-minded but limited efforts to do well by girls such as Therese and Fleur, but as she went on to mention her body he turned to look at her. Her head was tilted back as she walked, searching for his reaction. “I will not be owned by anyone,” she turned forwards again, her face as neutral as he supposed his was.

Noting the public opinion of her as a “rebellious woman” he considered again her intentions for helping the other girls at the salon, in light of the fact that even the Comtesse, with her wealth and standing, might understand some of the same fears as the poorer girls in her care. He hoped he had injected enough levity into his voice as he spoke of public opinion, and though he maintained an avoidance of her gaze he was glad to hear her intake of laughter. She stopped, forcing him to turn and regard her languid grin, the seductive, hooded eyes that had first struck him that morning having finally recovered from the sorrow that surrounded them in the morgue.

She raised her eyebrows. “Does that frighten you?”

“No,” he countered swiftly, pushing away the bothersome thought that he would never have hauled her down to the morgue that night if he hadn’t feared a follow-up to their conversations of the morning in one way or another. He had moved decisively to ensure the upper hand there.

Before he could think about it further he took a sharp breath and told her he had been married. He had told none of the musketeers this willingly, and he was surprised to find how easily the words poured out to her. He mentioned no details, did not meet her piercing, enquiring gaze, and finished with a declaration that he was done with romance — the words did not sound as trite as he had expected once they had been said out loud. There was a simplicity to it that was a relief for him to hear from his own mouth.

The playful expression the Comtesse had worn was absent now when she suggested “it ended badly then?”

Athos smiled at the understatement, focussing closely on her face, as with genuine sorrow she expressed her sympathy, looking down sadly before telling him that she hoped for equality between men and women, not hate. He felt that he might hope now that she would not hate him for taking her to the morgue and for questioning her about Fleur. In her defiance he now glimpsed something of his own rejection of the lifestyle expected of him, a refusal to be bound by the expectations of others.

He moved forwards, willing her to look back up at him.

There was a shout from behind him and Athos whirled, his heart sinking as he saw Aramis at the Comtesse’s door, hurling a man in a familiar red uniform to the floor. Wondering only dimly why his friend was at the Comtesse’s salon at this hour, but thankful that he was, Athos spun back to her, lingering for a moment on her accusing frown: “these are the Cardinal’s men, I knew nothing of this.” She narrowed her eyes searchingly, but he could hear more yells from the salon now that the door was open and he did not dare speculate further. He turned and ran for the door, hand reaching automatically for his rapier.

Coming briefly to a stop in the entrance he surveyed the carnage around him — books and papers had been torn from the shelves, a few women who had been reading late (ah, _that_ was why Aramis had been there) were rushing hither and thither looking for a way out of the central room, whilst red guards dashed anything they could get their hands on to the floor. A number of them gleefully threw whatever they could find down from the balcony above, seemingly not bothered about hitting their own comrades with the falling hardbacks.

Aramis tried to stem the tide of destruction, but his brawling, whilst a distraction for the guards, was only making the mess worse. Athos felt the Comtesse charge in behind him, bringing herself to a stop just over his shoulder and clutching automatically at the fabric of his shoulder and arm. Gasping, she tried to move past him, calling out for her books as she saw the heavy volumes grabbed from shelves and dumped unceremoniously in heaps on the floor.

Athos extended his arm in front of her, keeping his focus on the room. “Stay back,” he intoned, hoping that she’d see sense and keep herself away from the chaos around her as he moved forward, glancing around him for any sign of a commanding officer.

Athos turned his attention to a guard whose path approached his, the man pulling a young woman at his side who grimaced as he hauled her along with his fingers buried deep in her ringlets. The man ignored Athos’ question about the authority of the search and tried to push him out of his way, releasing the girl as he lashed out. Impatient and appalled by the consistent brutality of the Cardinal’s thugs, Athos shoved the man backwards, grabbing high up his arm as he was unbalanced and forcing him to the floor.

Things were getting rapidly more serious; one of the red guards had drawn his sword and rushed at Aramis. Thinking ruefully of the fact that the Comtesse’s first concern had been her books rather than the women still in the salon, Athos grabbed a tome and hailed Aramis, throwing it to him for his defence from the blade and grabbing a second one for himself as another assailant ran towards him. Athos beat the guard back with the book hard enough to be able to flank him, wrapping his arms around the man’s chest and neck and dragging him backwards, squeezing him into submission.

Then there was a new commotion on the other side of the room and Athos paused, staring in grim disbelief. A door behind the towering bookcases had been opened and a file of teenage girls emerged glumly, following the triumphant guard who had called to his fellows. He released the man who was in his grip, furiously thinking of the _three times_ the Comtesse had looked him calmly in the eyes and told him she did not know where Fleur Baudin was. Simultaneously he found himself frantically wishing that the last few minutes had gone differently in every way possible.

The Comtesse had rushed forwards to the girls as the destruction around the salon subsided. She clutched the hands of the first girl in reassurance, turning from her desperate gaze only when the guards’ leader spoke her name. He began to announced the summons for her arrest and Athos stifled a groan, leaning forwards with his eyes fixed on the Comtesse as she began to shake her head, “no, no…” she repeated, her fingers and those of the girl who had reached out for her turning white as their grips on each other tightened.

“You said she wasn’t here,” the words emerged despite himself, quietly, but he knew she would hear the disappointment in his voice.

The Comtesse turned pleadingly towards him, still not releasing the hand of the girl before her, who he now guessed to be Fleur Bourdin. “She begged me not to tell anyone,” she gulped, the words forcing themselves out through rising fear that cut Athos to the quick, coming as it did from the mouth of such a self-possessed person as the Comtesse. As she leaned towards him desperately a guard stepped between them, and another behind her, roughly gathering her by the arms and pushing her back from Athos, who could not move against them now that it was obvious the guards’ search had been warranted.

The pitch of her cries rose as they dragged her from the room, begging him to intervene, but all he could say was “sorry, I can’t.” He heard how indignant his voice sounded even in his own ears and his mind raced through all the reasons why she hadn’t told him the truth.

Seeing his impassiveness, she ceased struggling and turned in the direction the guards were taking her, tossing her chin in an attempt to regain some control over herself.

The guards filed out of the room, taking their witnesses with them and leaving Athos rooted to the spot, only moving when he sensed that Aramis was watching him from the corner of his eye. He shot his friend a glum look and set his jaw. The night was yet early, and he knew exactly what he’d be doing with the rest of the evening — no doubt Aramis knew also, but if Aramis chose to follow him that was his business.

Athos stalked towards the open front door, then paused and surveyed the room. It was strewn with papers shredded, trampled, torn and crumpled. The rugs and chairs were all out of order; tables and seating had been tipped over, and he noted scuffs from dark leather on the white pillars that encircled the salon, as well as pale scratches on the dark wood floor. Standing nervously in the door that led further into the house he saw one of the Comtesse’s staff and he strode back towards her. “See to it that whatever can be salvaged and tidied is. Lock the door after us.” The woman nodded and curtseyed perfunctorily, watching Athos and Aramis leave and pushing the door closed behind them, the key turning with a quiet click that echoed through the heavy wood as they stood on the doorstep.

“So,” began Aramis, who had never been good at respecting Athos’ preference for silence at times like this. “The Ship is the closest, I believe?”

Athos grunted assent, thinking again of her face as the Comtesse had asked him to stop them from taking her away. Her mouth had turned down and eyebrows furrowed as they had in the morgue, and Athos tried not to unpick the jumble of thoughts that came with this image: _you_ have caused her this pain tonight, repeatedly; she is a brazen _liar_ like all her sex, she would have used you without a second thought and you’d have been implicated in Fleur’s kidnapping just as truly as she is; she had not lied in that moment though, she believed she had been acting in the child’s best interests, she was helping in the only (misguided, naïve) way that she could.

Pulling the glove from his right hand, Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his index finger into the deep crease that furrowed his brow. “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “The Ship.” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and let his hand rest there, guiding him down the steps into the courtyard, where only a short while before he had been considering repaying the Comtesse for her kiss.

When Athos drank, he drank with a furious purpose, and The Ship was an excellent place in which to do so. Dark panelled, high-backed benches formed makeshift booths, full of lightless corners where, in combination with a low-pulled hat, Athos could make himself feel that there was nothing but darkness, background noise, and the sour note of the thin red wine they served. Annoyingly, Aramis’ hands intruded into his world this time, delicately laced around his own stoneware cup across the table from him, and the comforting background noise of a busy tavern was occasionally punctuated by the other musketeer’s pointed throat-clearing, humming and fidgeting.

“Look, Athos—”. Athos glanced up at him, tilting his head in order to eyeball Aramis from below the brim of his hat and hoping that his glare would say all that was needed. But it was not enough to do the trick this time. “I don’t know what was going on in there, but the Comtesse is no sinister kidnapper!

“The girls I talked to in that salon were mostly from wealthier backgrounds, yes, but they said that she teaches any who want to learn how to read and write. They discuss astronomy and the latest developments in scientific knowledge, works of literature and great art. If she is dangerous it is only because she encourages the members of her sex to think for themselves, beyond the small ambitions their fathers may have for them.”

Athos could not supress a derisive snort; of course Aramis approved. The more women there were ignoring the wishes of their families, the more women there would be willing to embark on an affair with Aramis without fear of scandal and shame.

“I know what you think,” his friend shook his head, although amusement crinkled at the corners of his brown eyes. “And I will not deny my own interest in such an emancipation. But think about what it is you are raging for tonight. It is not that you genuinely believe the Comtesse to have lied maliciously,” as Aramis spoke, Athos felt his left hand move unconsciously to his chest, fingers searching in the fabric of his shirt and scarf for the locket that hung there. “You are hurt because she did not trust you enough to tell you the truth; no doubt she is hurt because you did not trust her enough to take her at her word as you promised to.”

The familiarity of what Aramis said was cloying. Athos gasped and raised his cup for a deep draught of the wine inside it. He thought again of the Comtesse’s face as she had been pulled away, and as she had glared at him in the candlelight of the morgue, and her features flickered and reformed in his mind, and he saw again the vision of Anne in the burning building at Pinon, could almost imagine he felt the thin, nasty blade held to his throat again as she looked down on him with revulsion and fury.

“Athos…” Aramis cajoled, reaching a hand out to pin his drinking arm to the table. “No one but yourself believes you are motivated by this hatred. The truth of the matter will emerge at the trial, and you will see the girls support their benefactor and protector. The Comtesse means only to save some young lives from a world of unhappiness and I am surprised if you truly cannot support her in that endeavour.”

He sighed slowly, deeply, shakily, and his grip tightened on the locket and the cup. He released the former first, using his freed hand to remove Aramis’ fingers from his forearm and lifting the cup to his ever-parched lips once more. “Perhaps…” he cleared his throat, not looking up. “Perhaps you are right about her.” He gazed blankly at the puddles of stale alcohol on the table before finally looking up at Aramis, who sat back a little at Athos’ glassy, sad stare. “I cannot imagine her imprisoned tonight. I hope they treat her well. I hope…” Athos looked down again, twitching his head, _no_. He could not imagine her in a cell, not even those locked rooms reserved for aristocrats, because in a moment of wild _hope_ in the courtyard before her house he had let himself imagine her at home tonight. He had touched nothing without his gloves on in that bedchamber before, but he knew the feeling of the rich fabrics he’d seen there. The tips of his fingers tingled at the memory of silk ribbons resisting momentarily before they glided from bow to slack tangle; the firmness of a bodice before its lacing was undone yielding satisfyingly when it was loose enough to remove. He imagined knotting his fists in the thick feather duvet on the bed, the down inside crunching and prickling his palms through the linen. He saw himself freeing her golden curls to drape them over the two of them together, felt the weight of the velvet bed curtains as he might have drawn them closed around himself and the Comtesse.

He clenched his left fist in revulsion at what he felt now instead of these things: cold beer soaking into his shirt sleeve from the table, the splinters of the scrubbed wood surface and the grains of sand bobbling and puckering the imperfect exterior of the cup in his other hand. “It is no good Aramis. She cannot be allowed to take girls from their families, no matter her intentions. She _lied_ to us. To me! Repeatedly. She looked me in the eye and she lied brazenly.”

Aramis smiled, but it did not reach all the way to his eyes this time. “You do not mean this. But I will not try to reason with you any longer. Shall I return to make sure you leave this place at closing time, or just ensure that a large bucket of water is at your window in the morning?”

“Go,” Athos mumbled, sitting back and waving a hand at him. “You have no idea how much I do mean it.” His left hand groped its way back to the locket and he thought darkly on his wife and on the events of the previous day. “Barman!” he barked as the man walked past, gathering empty bottles from the table. “Bring me another flask of the house wine.” The man nodded, concealing any opinion he might have held on Athos’ need for more wine at that point.

Long and late into the night that he should have been dining with the only woman who had cared to pay him any attention since the death of Anne, Athos dined on the cheapest, nastiest wine The Ship sold. As he drank he convinced himself of wilder and more outrageous injustices, not caring to listen to the drowning voice in the recesses of his mind that tried occasionally to point out the unfairness of his assumptions. Equality between the sexes? How could there be such a thing when all women were so accomplished as liars? Or maybe they only lied to the ones they professed to love? Was even their love a lie? Thieves and kidnappers and murderesses the lot of them! The world Athos built for himself out of empty wine bottles was utterly distant from the world in which Madame Bonacieux was a loyal and kind friend; the world in which his wife had hoped to build herself a new life of happiness with him by forgetting her past; the world in which the Comtesse had flirted with him whilst maintaining her protection over the scared teenagers in her care; the world in which Athos knew the Queen of France to be the most intelligent, compassionate voice in the royal palace.

By the time he stumbled back through the streets of Paris in the cold blue night he had raged his way through many more delusions and imagined persecutions. He did not look where he walked, his head bowed to gaze on the open-palmed hand he held before him. Having come through all the self-pitying anger he had shrunk down to sadness only, and in his hand he held the locket open as he returned meanderingly towards the garrison. Three bright forget-me-nots winked at him from the locket, leading him forward as Anne had once led him racing a surer path through the fields around Pinon. He clattered into the wooden beam outside his room and clicked the locket shut, closing his eyes wearily and fumbling with the handle to his small chamber. Inside he unbuckled his weapons, hanging them in their places and managing only half of the buttons on his doublet before he succumbed to the hard straw mattress.

***

The pounding of the horses’ hooves as the musketeers rode escort to the Comtesse was a familiar and strangely pleasant part of Athos’ hangover. The cold morning air, a little damp with mist, worked wonders on his aching face and the sound of the horses’ heavy gait let him imagine that the thumping inside his head was in actual fact mostly _outside_ his head. The Comtesse rode at the back of their group, accompanied by two red guards, whilst Aramis and Porthosled the way. Athos let his horse linger just ahead of the guards, but could not bring himself to turn to see the Comtesse’s expression, not wishing to look at her and be reminded of all the resentment that still jumbled and roiled in his mind.

Arriving at the convent and dismounting, Athos overheard Porthos exchange frustrated words with Aramis. When Treville had delivered the news to them this morning — that they would be accompanying the Comtesse to trial for witchcraft at a convent outside Paris — Athos had barely been able to register what it meant. The voice of the night before had sneered bitterly: _witchcraft? Might as well be, who else knows what she was hiding_. His comrades were in no doubt of the injustice of it, however, and of the undesirability of anything in which the Cardinal’s scheming hand could be discerned. Athos approached them and squared his jaw, fixing both of them with a serious stare. “She had the girls, she lied, she brought her fate on herself.”

Aramis narrowed his eyes, curling his lip to hear the same sentiments emerge from Athos that he had heard last night. He leaned towards Athos and returned his pointed look, “she was protecting the girl, not deceiving you.”

Athos glanced up at him, annoyed but not surprised to hear this argument again. Aramis watched him carefully, but Athos could not manage another reply, jerking his head and walking away from the group again. He heard Porthos’ snort of recognition as he went, but he ignored it. Let them think what they wanted, they knew there were certain points on which he would not be drawn.

He did not see Aramis go to the Comtesse, tenderly hand her the cross he had received from the Queen and speak kind words to her at a moment of need.

Aramis, for his part, considered briefly offering some token of clarification regarding Athos’ manner, but decided against it, deeming his friend’s sense of betrayal to be significant of something beyond his explanation. The sadness of the Comtesse’s face made him ache with frustration though — frustration at the trial, frustration at the Cardinal, and frustration that his friend could have eased the unwarranted guilt that he saw her wrestle with.

A short while later, everyone assembled in a hall in the convent. The Comtesse was seated in the middle of the floor, isolated from those around and forced to look up from her low chair to the stage and panel of judges before her. Athos, Porthos and Aramis stood a little way behind her, their backs to the stalls, where the trial was witnessed for the most part by monks. Athos watched her steadily, trying not to acknowledge the admiration swelling in his chest as she returned the Cardinal’s opening words with her customary sharpness.

The Comtesse swallowed nervously as Fleur Baudin was called forwards, although any man more charitable than the panel before her might have suggested that this was not a sign of guilt, but of concern for her young protégée. The nerves were gone from her face when Fleur turned anxiously to look at her, however, and the Comtesse nodded her encouragement. Fleur had not yet learnt the swift responses of her teacher though and soon found herself panicked and flushed at the Cardinal’s prying, leering questions. The Comtesse could not remain quiet at the performance, hotly interjecting “you twist every word that comes out of her mouth!”

Richelieu commanded her silence but it only poured fuel on the fire of her anger. “I was gagged the day I was born a woman!” she returned with finality; Athos saw her shoulders moving with heavy breathing as Richelieu trampled her words with a patronising allusion to romance novels. Then Fleur’s composure snapped too, her tutor’s courage emboldening her to cry out at Richelieu’s deliberate misinterpretation of her testimony. The Cardinal sneered and dismissed her from the court. As two red guards led her roughly past the Comtesse, to whom Fleur still looked beseechingly, Athos stepped forwards, shoving one of the men hard as he saw his hand pinch into the girl’s arm. The guards stepped back, glaring in a manner that told Athos he should probably try to recall their faces and avoid the bars they drank in, but they let Fleur walk freely back to her father in the stalls. Watching them carefully, Athos heard the next witness approach the front of the courtroom. The rustle of thick, heavy skirts and the click of heels were followed by Richelieu’s command for her to say what she knew.

She spoke a few words and he looked up, feeling suddenly unsteady. Rising nausea and panic set in when he saw the glossy black curls of her hair, listened to the seductive tone of her voice as it feigned innocence and hesitation, the underlying motive of painting the Comtesse as a witch and a seducer of girls coming through her testimony straight and direct as a knife to the gut. She continued, never-ending it seemed, potions and spells and missing memories, missing clothes. The Cardinal leaned over his desk, drinking up her words. Athos had no control over his movements. That voice. That voice he had last heard in what he’d come to hope had been a drunken fever dream, and it filled him with a fury and a fear that he could not squeeze back down into the corner of his soul where it had waited over the last five years. He pushed forwards, unable to hear the Comtesse’s own objections to the testimony through the rushing, ringing, pounding of blood in his head: “this woman is a liar!” All the resentment that had been building up inside him exploded in these words, but the witness barely flinched and did not turn to him at first. He pushed past shocked monks, advancing on the woman he thought he’d killed all that time ago, the wife who had lied to him repeatedly. He was still shouting; he wasn’t even sure what he was saying as he was brought to a halt by the immovable bulk of Porthos and Aramis. He raged, trying to push through them as Anne gazed coolly at him from behind a large black fan and feigned shock at his performance, asking the room whether he had any connection to the Comtesse.

The Cardinal demanded order and Porthos and Aramis hauled him to the window at the side of the room, pushing him back against the sill as all the energy that had coursed through him now vanished, leaving Athos drained and exhausted. His eyes were wet, his throat was dry and sore and he shivered hot and cold. The witness, ‘Madame de la Chapelle’, glided past them, her glance like an icicle dropping as she went.

Unable to listen any further Athos ignored the questioning faces of Aramis and Porthos, leaving the room once he felt there had been a safe distance between Anne’s departure and his. The cool autumn morning had turned into a cloying day; anaemic sunlight draped itself over the stones of the convent as Athos stood in the courtyard trying to remember how to breathe normally. He felt like the inside of his head was buzzing, not with the old wine anymore but now with an incessant fog of noise and confusion, preventing him from picking a path through his thoughts. He looked at his hands and to his surprise saw they were shaking. This was a convent, was it not? There would be beer at least, if he could find it. He staggered down a stone-tiled corridor, asking the first monk he encountered for the brewery. Somewhat uncertain, the man pointed the direction for him, and soon Athos had a pitcher of cold, refreshing beer inside him and an empty vessel in his hand. He was not too proud to admit that it had had the desired effect of clearing his head and steadying his hands. But now that he could think clearly he had to face the knowledge that the vision at Pinon had been real. She was real, she was alive. Rémy was dead by her hand, the man he had ordered to move the cart from under her. The man who was meant to verify her death when Athos could not stay to watch it.

Anne’s performance for the court had put things in perspective though; the Comtesse was undoubtedly being framed. She was going to die because of Anne’s testimony. This realisation made Athos slam the empty pitcher down and turn back to the main building. _Damned fool. There are lies and there are lies_. He’d always known deep down that the Comtesse worked out of compassion, lied out of compassion, why couldn’t he have let himself accept this until he was reminded what the effect of truly malicious lies was?

When he got back to the courtyard he heard a commotion and he felt his heart skip a beat — had she been sentenced already? Were they to execute her now? Then he saw Treville rush across the corridor into a room at the other end of the building and Athos blinked, wondering when the Captain had arrived. He set off towards the room and soon heard choking and wheezing. The Cardinal lay on a bed, tense and twitching, his eyes popping and his chin jutting out as Aramis and Porthos tried to hold him down. The king was leaning over him, begging him not to die as Captain Treville tried to pull his majesty away from the evidently poisoned Cardinal. Aramis called again for an emetic and Athos grabbed the jug from the monk who entered the room, stepping forward quickly to hand it to Aramis.

“Whoever did this, I want them found,” the king murmured, transfixed by the Cardinal’s convulsions as Aramis forced the unpleasant liquid down Richelieu’s throat. Athos’ mind raced, blundering immediately to his murderous, lying wife — she was capable of this. But why would she poison the Cardinal if he too wanted the Comtesse’s conviction? His thoughts took an ugly detour, wondering whether the Comtesse herself or Fleur had tampered with the Cardinal’s water. Perhaps she did not hate all men, but who would be surprised to know she hated the Cardinal enough to kill him? _No_ , Athos backed away from the group, seeking the fresher air of the corridor again. _No, that is unbelievable, she would not. Could not_.

Having escorted the king away, Treville returned to Athos in the corridor, informing him that the Comtesse’s execution had been stayed by the King and Queen; she would only be killed as a result of her own direct confession. Athos nodded acknowledgement of this, but would not quite find any words with which to reply. His throat felt bruised and stiff again as he tried to swallow.

When Porthos emerged into the corridor shortly afterwards, Athos followed him blankly into the now empty room where the trial had been and watched him sniff the Cardinal’s water without really seeing anything. He was still struggling to believe that Anne had stood on this very spot only moments ago. Aramis entered as well and he and Porthos exchanged disbelieving words on the crime; Porthos then eyed Athos, who stood transfixed, gazing dazedly at the wall. “Athos. That woman? Madame de la…Chapelle? Who is she.” The last part didn’t sound like much of a question. Athos felt his eyebrow quirk upwards and he looked back at Porthos from the corner of his eye. Before he could formulate a reply Aramis strode up to him, asking urgently how he had known her, how he knew she’d lied.

That one was easy. “Her whole life is a lie,” he declared.

Even though he walked away from them again he knew his friends were exchanging a world-weary, worried and pitying glance that he had seen time and again. He looked back at them warily, relieved when Porthos decided that it was unimportant for now. The question of the would-be assassin remained though, posed just in time for Sestini, the Vatican emissary who had barely been seen away from Richelieu’s side since his arrival, to posit the Comtesse as the only logical perpetrator.

The three men listened grimly, disbelievingly to his pronouncement that witchcraft had turned the Cardinal’s blood to acid. Sestini looked at all of them in turn, but Athos felt his eyes bore into him particularly: the man who had caused such a fuss in the trial. “Paris is no place for pious men,” Sestini growled.

Resolving to make something of his evening with the Comtesse matter, Athos finally spoke up, informing Sestini that his bag and its thief had been recovered and his property would soon be ready for collection from the morgue. Sestini showed no delight in this, but nodded his acknowledgement and left them.

***

Whilst they prepared to mount their horses for the ride back to Paris, Athos noticed Aramis looking pointedly at him. He gritted his teeth and studiously ignored it, lifting the side of his saddle to check the girth for the third time. As he stepped back he walked into Aramis’ outstretched hand, which fastened gently on his shoulder. “Athos…” that worry and pity again, there it was. “Athos, go and talk to the Comtesse. She needs a friend now more than ever.”

Athos bit back the ungrateful response that bubbled up and he sighed. “She’s not in the clear yet, Aramis. You forget that we return to Paris to question Fleur, who can only have worked as her accomplice.” He could not stand the thought of seeing the Comtesse in the crude cells the convent kept, and in any case, he had no idea what he would have been able to say to her.

Aramis shook his head and raised his hands. “Don’t say I don’t _try_ to help you…”

The three of them rode back at a fast but steady pace, silent for the most part until they reached the garrison. D’Artagnan learned the news from their account (Athos’ outburst in court was omitted, as no one really knew what to say about it) and he eagerly took the chance to bring Constance Bonacieux and her young cousin Fleur back to talk to them. Tempered in the fire of the Cardinal’s questioning that morning, Fleur was indignant at their suggestions and Athos found his eyes slipping to the floor, unable to meet hers as she rose to leave, bitterly confirming the Comtesse’s earlier words: she was to be married to a man in his forties whom she had never met. Her sardonic parting remark, “he’s quite the catch,” was followed up by Constance’s look of angry disappointment, directed at each one of the men. Athos still could not look up, but he felt its force nonetheless.

He slunk off the table and mentioned that he would go and collect Sestini’s bag from the morgue should anyone else with to accompany him. All three of the others expressed interest in the walk and filed in behind him, chatting through the case as they went. Athos half-listened to them and half-pondered the Cardinal’s interest in the Comtesse. Could it be a case of rejected affections? Everyone knew the Cardinal’s fondness for rich, feisty blondes. Why witchcraft though? Passing through the courtyard in front of the Comtesse’s house, Athos looked up longingly at the door, outside of which a red guard stood posted. He frowned at the sight. The Cardinal was less pious than Aramis for goodness’ sake; his motivations had to involve wealth and power more than spiritual fear, surely. He recalled their conversation in that very courtyard — she had wanted to protect her wealth and her body. What was to happen to those now that she was found guilty of witchcraft? Troubled with these thoughts, Athos rushed down the morgue steps, glad in a dim way to hear Porthos reject D’Artagnan’s suggestion that the Comtesse was the Cardinal’s poisoner.

Snatching the bag from the mortician, Athos felt a growing urgency of suspicion as he considered the details. Sestini had only just arrived and was soon to leave. The Cardinal had not mentioned witchcraft once until Sestini had put the thought in his head; the unmarried Comtesse’s conviction would see her lands and assets snatched up by the crown; her body, dangerously fascinating to the prosecutors of a witchcraft trial, would be gone or at least hidden away in the convent, her soul publicly damned and discredited in the memory of the living. There was still a missing piece though. Who could have poisoned Richelieu and why? “Did you ever find out how he died?” Athos gestured at the thief’s corpse.

The mortician had spoken to witnesses who described exactly what the musketeers had just seen happen to the Cardinal and Athos looked in horror at Aramis. “Sestini…” he breathed, unshouldering the bag and flipping it open. He extracted papers and scrolls and booklets whilst Aramis and Porthos established that the dead man’s mouth smelt of the same poison they had smelt on the Cardinal. D’Artagnan picked up what he removed from the bag, examining the writings more closely before the two of them came to a conclusion simultaneously: for D’Artagnan it was that the book he was holding was damp; for Athos it was that the bag’s contents had been soaked in poison from a now empty bottle that the hapless thief had presumably assumed to be liquor. Both of them sprang to the mortician’s wash bowl, frantically removing the sticky liquid from their hands.

Athos led the race from the morgue, and the four of them rode with all speed back to the convent. Hurling himself from his horse in the front yard of the convent Athos could not believe his eyes. A tall pole had been erected in the centre of the space, and bundles of sticks were piled up at its foot. Red guards swarmed around it and he strode up to one. “What’s this? The death sentence was commuted!”

The guard shrugged and informed him that the Comtesse had confessed.

The only way to save her now was to capture Sestini and make the Cardinal see that the Comtesse’s death was unnecessary. Athos ran after the other musketeers, charging through the smooth stone passages of the convent. None of the robed men they encountered was Sestini, and Athos began to despair of finding him in the maze of courtyards and corridors. “The Cardinal’s room,” he told the others, hoping that they were not too late and could wait for Sestini to make his final move there. He found an extra burst of speed as they charged towards the Cardinal’s chamber, and seeing the dead guard crumpled on the floor he draw his pistol, wild with the fear that they were too late.

Inside the room he saw Sestini leaning over the Cardinal’s bed and hollered his name. Only as the man turned and Athos let fire his shot did he realise that the Italian already had the Cardinal’s fork stuck in his chest. He ran to Richelieu’s side, the man growling in a pained voice his complaint that they were late. Now to keep the prickly Cardinal happy he forced out the sentiment that he was glad to see him alive; Richelieu was having none of it, but then Athos glanced again at the corpse with the fork in it. “You _knew_ about Sestini?”

Richelieu pointed to a relic given to him by the late emissary, but Aramis suddenly arrived and interjected, reminding them of the still more pressing matter currently being played out in the courtyard below. The Cardinal was crouching over Sestini’s body, but Athos dropped to his knees by the old man, clasping his hands before him and feeling his voice crack. “You don’t need to kill her. Please.” It was surely hopeless. Was there a more ruthless man at court than Richelieu? Athos feared not. He bowed his head, unable to look up to see the Cardinal’s reaction, and he thought of the only thing that Richelieu could possibly have had an interest in. “You can have everything you want and still let her go free,” he added, the bowed position of his neck and head adding to the tightness in his throat and encouraging the wetness on his eyes.

When Richelieu spoke, he sounded fey and unlike any other time Athos has heard him before. His voice was hoarse from the poison and the emetic, but there was a hint of fear that was new. “I am not a cruel man, just a practical one. What do you propose?”

Athos gulped down a sob; the smell of wood smoke had begun to reach them. He did not truly know what he argued for, but muttered promises about her leaving Paris, the Cardinal never again having to see her or hear from her, the daughters of Parisian men being free of her meddling, changed identity, no word of the events at the convent to be uttered, and ultimately, the fact that all her wealth and land was already the property of the king and what would she be able to achieve against Richelieu without it?

As soon as acceptance was granted he flew past the other musketeers, Aramis hot on his heels. The courtyard was awash with thick smoke, but he did not heed the prickling in the back of his throat as he screamed the commuted sentence out and barrelled through the guards, terrified of what might lie at the centre of the smoke. He hauled loose bunches of sticks and burning brands from the bottom of the pyre and with Porthos at his side scrabbled up the steep side of the construction, enveloping the still-living Comtesse with his arms, knife in hand to cut the ropes behind her. She was weak and dazed from the sweet, greenwood smoke, but she steadied herself on him, trying to focus. “I will not die today?”

“Not today, madame,” Porthos said, pushing another flaming bundle of sticks off the pile.

Athos said nothing, breathing raggedly in the foul air as he helped her gently down. Even through the smoke and the two days in jail he still caught a whiff of cloves on her skin, and his left arm wove itself snugly around her waist, directing her indoors and away. She paused first though and turned to Aramis; Athos saw his friend’s cross hanging at her breast, a sparkle over the sooty, stained linen robe she had been clothed in for the execution. “Your God did not abandon me after all,” she murmured; Aramis grinned in relief before Athos squeezed her gently closer, turning her towards the building.

He could not take his eyes from her, but could not speak to her for some time. Catching the eye of a passing monk he asked whether the Comtesse might clean herself up somewhere and whether she might find fresh clothes. The man nodded and he led them down to a clear stream in the grounds via the linen store. He handed the Comtesse linen for washing, soft leather slippers, a fresh white smock and a dark hooded robe similar to those worn by the other monks. “I shall give you some privacy,” Athos said softly, although his left arm clung to her waist, unwilling to let her step away now that he held her; tangible and alive.

She looked up at him, and his heart ached to see her eyes so sad, the defiance he had relished veiled and concealed. “No. Please stay, I have had all too much privacy in the last days.”

“I am sorry…” he managed, not sure what else to add. _For doubting your intentions. For not helping sooner. For ungenerous words I have said and thought. For not taking Aramis’ advice to speak to you in the cell yesterday. You could have been executed this morning and I would not have been able to apologise, to tell you I would fight to make sure your innocence was remembered. For bargaining away nearly all that you wanted to protect. For securing you a life, but one that it so different you may never forgive me_.

She smiled then and reached up a hand, cupping his bearded cheek and stroking the skin with her thumb. Untwining herself from his hold, she stepped back and placed the clean clothes on a rock, picking up the rags given to her for washing and the chestnut leaf soap that also lay drying on a rock by the water. Athos’ arm and side where she had leaned felt cold and empty, but her movements now were not inviting or coquettish, merely trusting and tired. He picked up the black hooded robe and extended it, holding a corner at each arm’s length and looking purposely down at the ground as she stepped into the shallow water, the sooty, scorched gown she wore floating around her knees. He listened to the sound of her dipping the rags and soap in the stream, to the intakes of breath she made each time the cold water touched her skin. Then he held his own breath and kept his focus down as she stepped back onto the grass, shielded from view of the convent by the robe he held out. She shed the old, wet gown and slipped on the new one before he looked up, seeing her walk towards him. He smiled at the vision; her relief was palpable, and she turned just in front of him, encouraging him to wrap the black robe closely around her, which he did gladly, trying not to let his hands linger as he slid them from her shoulders. She pulled up the hood and faced him once more “so my fate is to remain here, at the convent?”

Athos sighed and looked down again. “There is a meeting with the Cardinal. I did what I could, but your wealth could not be protected, even outside marriage.”

“Well,” she attempted a lightness of tone and succeeded partially. “If my girls are safe, and I am alive, I ought not to complain.” She adopted the posture that he remembered so well from a couple of nights ago, her hands folding delicately away beneath the edges of the now frayed cloak that she wore. They walked closely together back up to the convent, handing the old linens back to the monks as they passed the laundry rooms before making for the Cardinal’s chamber.

The other musketeers met them there, and Athos felt the chagrin of each and every one of them as the Cardinal spelled out the terms of Ninon de Larroque’s survival. She had regained some of her self-assurance, but was at that moment far from the woman she had been in the salon. Yet when the Cardinal told her that she could tell no one of the events at the convent Athos saw a spark in her eyes. “My voice will never be silenced,” she answered.

He looked down. Of course she would not, _could not_ accept. It was all in vain; she was too accustomed to her Parisian lifestyle and her pride was such that she could not countenance this chance at a modest life in the countryside.

“But I promise…you will never hear it,” she finished, her words now thick with sorrow and unshed tears. This satisfied the Cardinal, whose mood had changed again, leaving Athos and the others most uneasy.

***

He was now to escort her one last time to a waiting cart in the woods outside the convent, but again she paused as they left to address Aramis. Gently, with all gratefulness, she took his hand and returned the jewelled cross he had passed on to her. He had no words of his own to reply with this time, but smiled a small, swift smile at her bowed head. As she turned from Aramis, Athos placed a protective hand on the small of her back once more, guiding her through the gates. She now wore a plain grey outfit left for her by the king and queen and allowed to remain in her possession by the Cardinal.

Athos climbed onto his horse and Porthos helped Ninon up in front of him. In the simple dress there was no way she could sit behind, so Athos held her close with one hand and gathered the reins tighter in the other. He nodded to his friends and nudged the horse into a walk. He was in no hurry to get to the cart, and it was a relief to see her smile at the early autumn colours around them. Even when it began to rain he was reluctant to speed up, and the trees caught much of the water, surrounding them with the pattering sound of large heavy drops hitting leaves. Ninon shivered a little though so he pulled the horse to a stop, reaching behind the saddle to a thick woollen cloak that he kept there. He dismounted to unfold it and helped her slide down from the saddle as well.

He buttoned the black wool around her, acutely conscious of her eyes on him as he did so. “Better?” he murmured.

Ninon simply smiled sunnily. “I think it would be nice to walk a little, don’t you? I will have a long journey by cart ahead of me after all.”

He nodded, smiling in return and allowing his hand to rest easily on her back again, the other hand leading the horse by the reins. He looked long at her profile as they slowly progressed along the wet green carpet of the woods. “You will be happy then, even without your possessions?”

Her chin tilted and the corners of her eyes crinkled. He recognised the confident smirk that had first assailed him in her salon. “Why _yes_. I still have control over myself, my body and my life — none of which I would have had with the king’s offer, so may I thank you for that.” She turned thoughtful then: “though I do wish I’d been able to help Fleur better. I hope her father does not punish her for her testimony. She was so brave.”

“I know a formidable woman who is her cousin and who will keep a close eye on her,” Athos offered, remembering the smart he’d felt from the last glare Constance had given him. He looked up, squinting as the rainwater that was accumulating in his hair ran down his forehead. In the undergrowth ahead there was a subtle dash of colour: dark roses, wild-growing and tangled, having seeded themselves from the convent no doubt.

“I hope you see more clearly my position on the equality of the sexes now though,” Ninon mused, looking up at him as he slowed his pace. She frowned, following his gaze to the rose bushes. “Ah! Wild roses,” she flashed a warm smile, but her gaze flickered back to him expectantly.

Athos looked down at her, one corner of his lips quirking up into a matching smile. “I also hope that I do, Ninon,” her name felt strange in his mouth, but he had caught himself before referring to her as Comtesse. “I have known some remarkable women, but perhaps I did not appreciate how much more remarkable they might have been with the freedom of choices men have. We may not always make choices that make us happy, but surely it is better to be allowed to make ourselves unhappy than to have others impose unhappiness upon us.” He has spoken slowly, deliberately, and as he did he looked at her with the same wide stare he had held her with in the courtyard before her Parisian home.

Her lips fluttered around her faltering smile and she blinked sadly. “Quite so.”

Athos used the hand holding his horse’s reins to pull the glove from his left hand and then reached up to the curls framing her face, tucking them back into her wettening hair. Taking her own hand in his he led her over to the roses and drew his dagger. She watched with quiet amusement as he cut off three small flowers of a red so deep they appeared nearly black. “To go with your new colour scheme, my lady,” he bowed his head and held them out on his gloved hand.

Ninon tilted her head back and regarded him through heavy-lidded eyes. Her lips parted in a grin now. “Put them in my hair. I have no other way to wear such a gift.”

Athos freed his other hand from its glove, tucking both of them into his pockets and looping the reins over his arm. Stepping closer to her and trying not to think of forget-me-nots plaited in dark hair once upon a time in another life, he fastidiously broke the thorns from their stems and wove the three flowers into her thick golden hair, deftly tucking loose strands in around them and inviting her to reach up and check that they were secured to her liking.

“Now I feel fully dressed,” she laughed, then blushed a little at his look, feeling far from fully clothed under that grey-blue gaze. Athos felt his cheeks flush in echo and chuckled himself, looking away.

He pulled his gloves back on and they walked on, the companionable silence between them filled by the rustling and chattering of the raindrops on the broad leaves. Gradually the trees thinned and Athos sighed as he saw the path ahead, a small cart with driver and one bay horse waiting patiently in the open rain. He tied his horse and they walked the last few metres to the muddy road, finally turning to face each other at the back of the cart, behind the shoulder of the disinterested driver.

He asked her what she intended to do, and she replied with the hope that she could open a school, “for the daughters of the poor.” She held her hands clasped before her, smiling demurely and looking younger than she had when she’d stepped wearily down from the pyre that morning. Athos nodded, glad to hear the decisiveness in her voice when she added “I shall enjoy being a teacher.”

_And you will be so good at it_ , he thought whilst she shrugged her shoulders uneasily, betraying the nerves of a woman who has never had to seek a career path from scratch before.

Unable to let her go without asking, Athos found the words “Madame de la Chapelle” falling from his lips. “Did she ever tell you anything about herself?”

Ninon frowned again, troubled by the mention of her deceitful betrayer. Her eyes roved from his face to the ground and back before she answered a little ruefully that now she thought of it, she had only said very little. As his own brow furrowed she sharpened her gaze. “So you did know her after all?”

He wondered a little that she had doubted this; had she believed his passionate interjection in the courtroom was a reaction only to the lies being told? He felt the heavy realisation that she must have thought he had abandoned her to her fate only after he had fought on her behalf in that moment. “In another time. In another place,” he managed, knowing that she would connect it with the marriage he had mentioned previously, and feeling a slight rush of vertigo at having told her so much.

She bit the inside of her bottom lip and her eyes searched his face questioningly, trying to find further explanations that she knew not to ask for. Concern crossed her features and she raised her hand to his cheek again. “Be careful, Athos,” he pressed his head a little into her hand at the sound of his name in her whispered voice. “She has the Cardinal’s protection. A blow against her is a blow against him. And he won’t take it lightly.”

Her index finger rubbed the stubble on his cheek and he marvelled a little at her precision in assessing him, as well as the situation with the Cardinal. He was already leaning forward as she stepped in to kiss him a second time and he gasped at the soft, brief touch of her lips. The kiss was shorter, less indulgent than the one in her bedchamber had been, but when their lips parted she ran her thumb over his mouth and beard, reluctant to break contact. “I could have loved a man like you,” she admitted, trailing her fingers down his jawline as she moved back.

“It’s a pity,” he began, letting her fingers fall past his collar and scarf, slowly severing their touch with him. “Neither of us is the marrying kind.”

She looking searchingly at him again, seeking some glimmer of encouragement perhaps, some way of saying that love and marriage did not necessarily go hand in hand, some form of reproach. None offered itself so she nodded gallantly and looked down. She turned with renewed determination and made for the cart, taking his hand as help to climb up. She threw a final smile over her shoulder, arranging the cloak he had wrapped around her across her knees. Then she turned, said “let’s go,” to the driver, and the vehicle trundled abruptly into life, rolling away from Athos, who watched it to the last. He saw her turn her head sharply, once, as though she had remembered something she wanted to say, but she did not call out and she returned to her original position, where all he could see were her shoulders hunched in black and the pile of golden curls above them, three dark spots where the roses were.


End file.
